


A Place at His Right Hand

by theskywasblue



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Humor, M/M, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale and Crowley discuss good and evil - over red wine and tabloid news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place at His Right Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rroselavy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rroselavy/gifts).



Crowley was standing at the door.

The look he gave Aziraphale when the angel answered said door – handsome brow knit sturdily, mouth set in a tight line – suggested that he had been standing there for some time before Aziraphale had lifted his head from his book long enough to notice.

"Oh, was it locked?"

Crowley made a noise only describable as _piqued_. "Yes it was bloody-well locked. I wouldn't have been standing around on the sidewalk otherwise."

"You should have knocked," Aziraphale responded, with the resolute confidence of someone relating the colour of the sky.

"I did knock," Crowley huffed, stalking over and perching himself on the desk as if he were a rather large and immaculately-dressed paperweight. "I knocked for ten minutes straight well you sat here doing..." He gave the impressively large book on the desk a sideways glance over the rims of his sunglasses, "Whatever it is you were doing. Is that Cyrillic?"

"Indeed," Aziraphale hummed happily; but the deeply pleased expression that he had achieved through hours studying gracefully poetic Cyrillic prose melted into one of utter horror when Crowley drew an only-slightly crumpled tabloid newspaper from inside his jacket and fanned it out in front of himself.

"What in the world is..._that_?"

"Oh don't give me that look," Crowley retorted blithely, smoothing his fingers over the newsprint, "I have to keep in touch somehow."

"That – that is not allowed to come near my books." Aziraphale snatched the precious tome to safety, cradling it like an infant. "How can you place any stock in that nonsense? Even your side isn't so...uncivilized as to put the Son's image on-" he leaned towards the paper, much too close for his comfort, and squinted at the headline, "a tortilla in Palo Alto."

"_I'm_ definitely not – strictly low gluten these days. A flatbread – really, what _are_ they thinking? But you have to admit the boy did bugger the licensing rights on his image all those years ago; should get himself a solicitor."

"Are we really having this conversation?" Aziraphale was debating the merits of doing something quick and combustible to the offending newsprint, but there was far too much risk of doing permanent damage to his precious books in the process. Not to mention that the desk itself was a rather expensive antique. "I know it's in your nature to antagonize, dear, but surely you have something better to do."

Crowley gave him what Aziraphale supposed was meant to be a very long-suffering look. "Not until I can convince the powers that be that social networking is a valuable way to win souls to our side. It's beyond them to even _imagine_ the number of followers we might attract with our own Facebook page."

Aziraphale was perplexed, but nonetheless overjoyed, "You're starting a book club?"

"No," Crowley sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I'm not starting a – you know what, never mind. I have as much hope of talking to you about this as my superiors."

"Well there's no need to get snappish," Aziraphale ran a hand through the graceful muss of his hair. "I don't suppose you'd like some wine then. I've perhaps two glasses left of that bottle from the last time..."

Crowley's thin lips curved into a smile that was too affectionate to be truly malicious, but still held a certain edge of demonic amusement that the man simply could not avoid. "I would love some."

Aziraphale retrieved the last of a finely-aged bottle of port and two glasses from the back room. Crowley had made a small concession to his peace of mind and made scarce the offending newspaper upon his return.

"You look pleased with yourself – as ever."

"Shouldn't I be?" Crowley leaned backwards very slightly, palms flat on the desk, elbows locked, his entirely too cunning grin still firmly in place. "You're breaking out the wine; this always means good things are in store."

"Presumptuous!" Aziraphale laughed, despite the wholly serious nature of what Crowley was saying. Surely he wasn't so predictable after this little time – it had only been a few centuries after all! "We angles aren't all love and kittens, you know," he poured a glass of wine and set it on the desk next to Crowley. "There are very distinct mentions of wrath – and smiting."

"Angel," Crowley laughed, leaning farther back, until his elbows folded and he was stretched quite lithely atop the desk, "the day that you smite someone will be the day I join an ice hockey league."

"I can smite..." Aziraphale was aware of the pouted curl of his lip, but didn't feel a particular need to overcome it.

Crowley fixed him with a look of deeply amused disbelief as he took his glass and raised it to his lips. "Yet here I am."

Wine in hand, Aziraphale found a perch on the corner of the desk – knowing that its antique solidity was more than enough to support their combined weight; it was pure oak, none of that silly clap-board nonsense.

"I hate to tell you Crowley my dear," he tipped his head just enough to fix the demon with an affectionate smile, "of late you are rather far down on the grand scale of all things evil."

Aziraphale managed one good sip of his wine before he found himself with a glass full of red wine vinegar.

"Now Crowley...that is just..."

"Wicked?"

"Uncouth – perpetrating such crimes against a fine wine. This is a comet vintage you know." With a single, quick movement, Aziraphale swapped his vinegar-filled glass with Crowley's, ignoring entirely the demon's startled squawk of protest.

"You're evil," Crowley groused, swirling the glass of vinegar.

Aziraphale shrugged, smiling.

-End-


End file.
